


Silken Gloves

by BirdWhistle



Category: The Tick (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-11 09:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15969266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdWhistle/pseuds/BirdWhistle
Summary: Dot and Overkill engage in certain activities NOT related to hunting down villains.





	1. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of a heated argument, Dot acts on an impulse she's had for a while.

Lust. It had been lust, pure and unadulterated lust. Adrenaline too, sure, and frustration and anger. But mainly lust. A lust he hadn’t felt in almost fifteen years. But now the floodgates had been opened by one strong-willed Dot Everest. And he was being thrashed by enormous waves. And he was enjoying every second of it.

 _Is this what I’ve been missing?_ That question was the very last coherent thought in his mind before he was engulfed by the water. The water being, of course, the hands, and the mouth, and the skin of a petite blonde who smells like tropical fruit and black coffee and, _God_ , his fucking skin is on fire and he wants to get even closer -they’re already so deliciously close- and his cock gets impossibly hard when their tongues first touch. Overkill is _so_ fucked. And he will get fucked soon enough. Fucked hard.

“You’re not made of steel, you can still die!”, she shouts. Dot didn't know much about Overkill, but she knew he was ridden with guilt. Arthur had told her that he’d once been Straight Shooter, and she wasn’t surprised. He could be a superhero if he so wished. Well, not super, but close enough. He was good and he fought the good fight and he sought the right kind of revenge. AND he’d stopped the needless, well, _overkilling_. But it didn’t take a degree in psychiatry to figure out how guilty he feels over how the Flag Five had ended.

She hadn’t told him she knew who he used to be; she hoped he would tell her one day. That wasn’t a topic she had a right to bring up. That right was his and his alone. Now, however, they are fighting. She’s tired and she aches all over but he’s so goddamn stubborn and his apparent death wish angers her to no end. She’s suggested therapy several times; he desperately needs it. She likes him, but it’s not her job to fix him.

But she does like him. A lot. She likes the way that stupid outfit of his clings to his slender frame. She’s often wondered what he looks like without it. Does he have scars on his chest, on his back? That would make him even more attractive, she’s thought. And these thoughts have really surprised her. She sighs and tells herself it’s because she hasn’t gotten laid in months and he’s a big dude who kicks ass and that’s why her hormones go haywire when he’s around. But it’s more than that, and she knows it. Fuck.

Dangerboat had brought up Dot Everest’s peculiar interest in him a few times. _She seems to enjoy your company, strangely enough_ , he’d said. Overkill had noticed, of course. He had noticed how her breathing became a tad more shallow when he approached her. He’d noticed how her eyes roamed about his body when he gave her instructions on how to improve her aim.

He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it, though. Dot was a beautiful woman, he could not deny that, he was neither blind nor idiotic. And his own pulse seemed to lose its rhythm when she was close. He had felt, once or twice, a sudden and inexplicable desire to tuck her hair behind her ear. He had caught himself looking -maybe staring- at her breasts a couple of times. He was only a man, after all.

And after so many years of abstinence, his body was starting to let its guard down. He stood a bit closer; he grazed her arm with his own. But he was still in control. Yet a tiny part of his mind, a soft, distant voice in his head, lets him know his control is slipping. And tonight is the night it completely crumbles under its own weight. Tonight is the night he finds out what Dot Everest tastes like.

“I know that, I’m not an idiot!”, he yells. He doesn’t mean to yell at her, but he can’t help it. She calls him stubborn, but she is no less stubborn than he is. He knows he enjoys seeking out dangerous situations a bit too much. But he’s so much better than the filthy criminals that roam the streets of The City. He’s far superior physically; he’s way better with weapons.

Sure, he’s not immortal: a bullet fired at the right time and with enough precision can end him in less than a second. But he can’t stop. Ramses has been replaced by another kingpin; crime doesn’t rest, doesn’t quit. The fight must go on. The difference is that now, someone cares if he lives or dies.

“Then stop acting like one!”, she yells back. He grabs her wrist -like he did not too long ago- and he brings her closer. “I am not an idiot. What I am is a fool for letting you treat me like this!”. _Like what? Like she cares?_

“Like what? Like an adult who makes mistakes and should be held accountable?”, she asks. "They’re more dangerous than the Pyramid Gang, Overkill. You can die. You can’t die.” This last sentence is more a whisper she utters to herself. And Overkill feels something in his chest. Guilt. As if he didn’t feel enough of it. _Jesus_.

“You can die, you asshole!” Her voice is raised again, she’s breathing a little faster than she was a few seconds ago. Her eyes are on his. Overkill sees something in those eyes that he recognizes: determination. He’s seen that look before. That’s her defining look. He has little time to wonder what she's so determined about, because Dot grabs his shoulders and kisses him.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things escalate.

_“What is it with the wrist grabbing?”_ , Dot thinks. But, much to her chagrin, it turns her on. He’s wearing those gloves he wears all the time, so the metal doesn’t feel like metal. In fact, his hand feels almost like an actual, human hand. And maybe it’s the friction of the glove or the tenacity of his grasp or the way his eyes seem to glimmer when he’s this close to her; whatever it is it turns her on even more and she does something she’s wanted to do since she saw how handsome he is underneath the skull mask: she kisses him.

It’s a closed-mouth kiss, because Overkill wouldn’t be Overkill if his lips weren’t constantly pursed in a sullen gesture. But even when the contact is minimum, she feels it. She feels the softness of his mouth, interrupted only by a miniscule scar unnoticeable to the naked eye. She feels, more than tastes, the cool freshness of his breath. She relaxes her own mouth, hoping he’ll mirror her gesture. He does. He also releases her wrist. There’s something else Dot feels. She feels him pull away.

It’s like watching a building collapse. Except he isn’t watching it: he’s feeling it. He’s feeling heavy weights disintegrate. The rumor of the fall is soothing. The rumor of the fall is Dot’s breath coming out through her nose in a long, soft puff.

The kiss is short and almost chaste. Both their mouths are closed. But he feels it, he fucking feels it. It’s the first time in over a decade he’s capable of acknowledging how much he’s missed human contact. Dot’s warmth is so beckoning; he wants that warmth to be liquid so he can drink it; he wants it to be solid so he can touch it. _But she is solid, idiot_. He releases her wrist -he’d forgotten he had grabbed it- and, without understanding why, pulls away.

They look at each other. Overkill looks at her with those uncanny eyes and he looks confused. His brow is in a perpetual scowl, but he manages to deepen it. And Dot sees it. She sees what she’d been hoping to see in the past few months: lust. The kiss had broken his restraint, or his ability to conceal it. Or it had spurred it into life, who knows. She sees it and her mind is nothing but a call for action, a war cry: fuck it. _Fuck him_.

She kisses him again. She brushes his lips with her tongue. She is full of courage and all of her being seems to vibrate with what she can only assume it’s an analogue of the thrill of the hunt. _Will he kiss back? Will I succeed? Will he succumb?_

She wants him to, of course. She wants him to shed that fear he carries around, that he uses for armor. Well, metaphorical armor. Luckily, he’d taken off all of his actual armor, so his skin was more readily available. She digs her fingers into his shoulders and deepens the kiss. Not only does he cave, he moans. An actual moan of pleasure. From Overkill.

 _What is his name?_ She thinks before she loses her train of thought because his mouth is fucking delicious and his tongue has finally decided to join the game. 

Of course he loses. He never stood a fucking chance. The reason they made it this far without any sort of physical contact of the sensuous kind was because Dot hadn’t decided to engage in physical contact of the sensuous kind.

She must’ve known, he thinks, that the initiative belonged to her. Even if he’d been able to overcome years and years of harsh self-discipline, he would have found himself amidst a vast sea of uncertainties, _how_ and _when_ being the biggest ones.

His impulses were violent in nature; whenever he indulged, blood was always the outcome. The dynamics of sexual attraction had been long forgotten, buried beneath the trauma of having his heart broken by a heartless woman who had also been responsible for the annihilation of his entire family. So, naturally, he had no idea how to handle his attraction for Dot Everest.

He actually feared he would hurt her should he try to touch her or kiss her. Their current circumstances reminded him that Dot wasn’t a helpless damsel made of glass. When her tongue touches his lips, he trembles slightly. It’s more of a shiver, and his reaction is to open his mouth. _Now_ it’s a kiss. She slips her tongue into his mouth, searching, probing. His own tongue moves to meet it and he can’t help but moan.

His arms wrap around her, seeking to make the distance between their bodies less than millimetrical. Scratch that: he wants to make the distance nonexistent. Which means their clothes are in the way. He can feel her and taste her and his instinct kicks in with full force and he wants nothing more than rid her of her garments and bury his face between her legs.

Their kiss has become a wild animal: she bites him and he sucks on her tongue and they swallow each other’s sighs and moans. Her hands are on his neck, and now in his hair, and she brushes the scars on his face with the tips of her fingers.

Once again, he pulls away, but only slightly. And this time his intention is not to distance himself from her. His face is still close to hers and her cheeks are a pinkish hue and her mouth is wet with his saliva and he feels the utmost need to vocalize his desire.

“I want you”.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but smut.  
> Sorry.

It’s all vivid and blurry at once.

They kiss again, and this time there is less hesitancy. They seem to have made peace with their desire; they seem awfully willing to accept whatever consequences there may be.

Dot feels strangely weightless; only Overkill’s hands on her waist ground her. His tongue slides and flicks against hers and, one by one, her thoughts dissolve. Neuronal networks that enable reason and language shut down temporarily. She can only feel, she can only smell, she can only taste.

She feels his body pressed against her own. Overkill is all sharp angles and hardened muscles and rough fabrics and she craves all of it. She smells his sweat mixed with soap and coffee and gun smoke. She tastes toothpaste and… whiskey? She devours his mouth and her fingertips ghost over his chest and she can’t help but dig her nails into it. Overkill growls in her mouth and pushes her into a wall. She hears a clatter of weapons and distant beeping sounds.

Overkill hears it too. But he pays zero mind to it. _Mind? What mind?_ All he can feel is the energy in Dot’s body: it’s almost palpable and it’s hot and dry and it sucks the air right out of his lungs. No, that’s Dot’s mouth, which is sweet and merciless and she _bites_ him, she fucking bites his lower lip and he responds by thrusting his hips hard into hers.

Is it him or is it his body? He’s not sure they’re the same entity anymore. His self has been reduced to pure want, pure need, pure hunger for Dot Everest and all she encompasses: hot skin and wet mouth and throaty moans and spread legs that encircle his narrow hips and nimble fingers that undo his belt and unfasten his zipper.

Overkill gathers all of his will and pulls apart. One of his hands is in her hair. When did he put it there? He can’t feel the softness of the strands and, for one moment, that fact makes him unbearably sad. But pure lust is still pumping through his blood and his heart stops for the briefest of seconds. Dot’s hand has found its way into his pants.

She has literally lost all self-control. The few times she had indulged in picturing sex with Overkill, she’d pictured it right where she was: in her apartment. On her bed.

Overkill has never been to her place, of course, but she’s sure he knows where she lives. And she’d imagined a knock on her door in the middle of the night, and Overkill standing in her doorstep, clad in black, like always. And he would kiss her roughly and they’d end up on her bed, she on top of him, riding him like a maniac.

But now they’re in his boat _-is Dangerboat watching this?-_ and she has no patience to find his bed. She’s never been this sexually frustrated in her life. She’s an attractive woman who has no trouble finding a bedmate. But Overkill has made it a goddamn challenge to fuck him, and now that she’s finally succeeding, details like a bed or even shedding clothes become pointless. She wants him here and now.

So she grazes the length of his cock with her fingers and relishes the hiss he lets out. He’s so breathtakingly hard that she actually struggles to breathe. His cock is fucking perfect. Or maybe she sees it that way because she’s so turned on it’s almost painful. She’s already so wet and “fuck me already, will you?”

Realizing that he requires oxygen to survive, Overkill starts breathing again. His hands tremble slightly when he starts undoing Dot’s pants. His eyes land on a simple pair of black boyshorts, and he looks at Dot right in the eye as he slides them down her thighs, and stops just above her knees.

Their position is far from ideal, but it’ll have to do. Dot is clearly the one calling the shots, and she seems determined (When isn’t Dot determined?) to fuck him right where they stand.

He wants to touch her, but alas, she’d probably flinch upon feeling the coarse fabric of his glove on her. Taking it off is, of course, out of the fucking question. Next time, perhaps -IF there’s a next time- he could show her that he can use his mouth for more than cursing.

He is inside of her in less than it takes to stab a man in the heart. He suddenly can’t breathe. His airways are open but he just can’t breathe. His eyes are open too, and they can only register Dot’s face, so close to his.

He withdraws and pushes back in. He does so again and Dot’s face disappears. He realizes he’s closed his eyes. There’s only so much he can take in. Too much sensory input and his brain will probably melt.

He had forgotten what it felt like. Or maybe he’d actively shut out those memories; he cannot remember, and it matters so little. What matters is that he can feel it now. And it's overwhelming but it’s also fucking fantastic.

Only Dot Everest is real. Everything else, the boat, the river, the night, anything and everything tangible and intangible fades into nonexistance. There is only Dot and her hands in his hair and her heaving chest and her warm cunt. And her soft command: “fuck me”.

She sees how… affected he is. She’s suffocating in her own need but she sees him. She sees Overkill embrace the feeling as if it were new. It takes him a few seconds to adjust. Dot perches her legs on his waist and whispers softly, orders him to fuck her. So he fucks her.

His hips begin to move and he fills her so fucking well and it’s slow but hard and she feels his sharp hip bones collide against her and one of his hands grabs her breast on what she assumes is pure instinct.

But soon both his hands are on her hips and he gathers all the momentum he can before thrusting into her and he growls just like he did mere moments ago, like a wounded animal or a man driven solely by lust.

And in what can only be described as perfect synchrony, Dot starts lowering her hand as Overkill whispers in her ear. “touch yourself, Dot”.

It’s the first time he calls her by her name.

It, of course, drives her absolutely wild and she moans loudly and she begins touching herself, she begins stroking her clit as he pushes his cock deep inside of her and it’s too much, _fuck _, she has only one goal and it’s to come before Overkill does because she doesn’t think he’s going to last long and she cannot think straight, she can barely think at all, she just moves to the rhythm of their hips and her middle finger draws small circles around her clit and she grabs him with her free hand and kisses him sloppily, she’s so close, she sucks on his tongue and moves her finger and squeezes her knees and _holy mother of jesus_ , everything goes white and silent and she has a mouthful of black fabric because she’s biting down on his chest as she comes, and she releases a half-moan, half-scream that seems to emerge from the very depths of her chest and rattles all of her bones.__

__

____

_You will be the death of me_ , he thinks as he watches her unravel before his eyes. And what a sight to behold. Together, rational Dot completely torn at the seams. This is what eyes are for. And her orgasm ripples across the infinitely narrow distance between them and seizes him and he can’t stop himself: he pulls out and comes, his body trembling, his mouth on the soft junction of her neck and shoulder, his eyes closed shut, his hands grasping Dot’s hips hard. He’s spilled himself all over her creamy thighs. He wipes it with his glove-covered hands. 

Dot looks at him. He looks deliciously disheveled.

Overkill looks at her. She looks like the cat that got the cream. He smirks.

“Are you smiling?”, she asks in disbelief. Overkill leans forward and looks into her eyes.

“Esteban. My name is Esteban”. Dot’s eyes are fixed on his. She smiles. A genuine smile.

He fights the impulse to tuck her hair behind her ear. He fights it and loses, obviously.

“I can’t wait to scream it as I ride you”, she says.

He kisses her hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry? LOL I'm not sorry.  
> Scott Speiser is absolutely yummy. Spread the word.


End file.
